


Origin of the Dovahkiin

by RawJacques



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Physical Abuse, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:23:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4264821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RawJacques/pseuds/RawJacques
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skyrim had the worst ever feeble excuse for starting scenario. It wasn't the "border crossing" enigma. It was that this pathetic character should so readily step up to the chopping block for a beheading, without protest.<br/>By the time I reached Riverwood, I could not go on, without conjuring up a backstory to explain it all. </p><p>But the backstory that arrived, in a one second rush, was rather more traumatic than expected. I suppose it had to be, to explain why the Dragonborn desired to die. </p><p>He was abducted by bandits in his youth. His parents were slaughtered, and he had been confined to the bandit camp for the past ten to fifteen years.<br/>Shackled, beaten and whipped, used and abused, his miserable slave existence explains his complete and utter lack of skills. </p><p>When Alduin finally gives him an unexpected chance to break free, he grabs it. Cautious, lacking in trust, he just about gets to the moment where his life can properly begin again, only to end up in the prisoner wagon bound for Helgen.  And <em>desperate</em> for a beheading, to end the misery once and for all, rather than relive it all over again. </p><p>There is one positive upside: it becomes much easier to choose Hadvar over Ralof...!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Motivation for the Story.

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, about that "underage" tag:  
> There is no explicit nor graphic sexual abuse of minors. The slave has clearly been mistreated since his abduction aged ten. But all of the references to underage sodomy are mere vague memories. That it happened. Much as abused adults today, might recall or reveal (or try to block out) what happened to them in their childhood.  
> There is nothing graphic nor gratuitous about it. If you want underage sex, then please read something else. For this story, it is a deeply unpleasant trauma that may or may not scar the Dragonborn for life.  
> Note too, that this is merely a "mature" rating, and not "explicit". That should further calm any jangling nerves about reading stuff you don't want to see. 
> 
> Even his daily gang-raping as an adult, is mentioned as part of his daily duties. He is numb to it. He does not enjoy it. And that's about as graphic as the story gets, because he is spared enduring a repeat performance of that actual event in this writing.
> 
> In fact, the way this is written, even the sexual orientation of the male dragonborn is not clear. His buggery is because he has no choice in the situation, not because he is that way inclined. He is raped, pure and simple. Likewise most of the bandits merely use him for convenience, not out of preference. Only the sole "friendly" bandit _might_ prefer slash, but even that is left in significant doubt. 
> 
> Because, at the end of the day, the dragonborn's misery has to be that complete and total, that the chopping block appeals strongly as a means of escape...
> 
>  
> 
> When I wrote this story, I had played the game for less than 5 hours. The "friendly bandit" was originally named Mercer. I started from "Mercy" and went from there. I had no idea there was a "Mercer Frey" NPC. They are absolutely not the same person. So for AO3, I have changed that name to Murcer. Just to make sure there is no confusion. 
> 
>  
> 
> I have one great fear: that this story might affect your own Dragonborn. Although, it is now clear from the number of readers who enjoy learning about other characters, and other player's characters, that here at AO3 that fear is reduced. On the other hand, stories about how the Dragonborn came to be in that cart, hands bound, en route to Helgen and execution, are rarer than hen's teeth. As far as I know, this is the only one. And that makes it a little... special. Because this might be the backstory of all Dragonborns. So, please, do consider if there is any risk that your own character might be tainted by this unpleasant Origin.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes about how this story came to be. Inspirations, what to expect, and how it might influence your thoughts and game.
> 
> Because, I'm _still_ worried this might affect your own Dragonborn... and this gives you a better chance to feel what might happen.

### 1\. Motivation for the story.

When I first watched the introduction to Skyrim, I was really puzzled about this mute nobody who meekly walks up to the chopping block like he’s about to receive a blessing.

It wasn’t the “border crossing” enigma that got me, it was the desire to have his head chopped off.

What could possibly drive someone - an innocent who had obviously just been in the wrong place at the wrong time - to accept the death penalty without a word of protest? Why would he step up to the chopping block so _keenly_ , so _eagerly?_

What _nightmare_ could possibly cause our hero to want to do that?  
It seemed the most unlikely of all RPG starting scenarios, ever. And it bothered me more than I could bear.

The other itch that slowly wormed its way under my skin, was that the player character had somehow stumbled into a civil war situation, getting in the middle of a rather important skirmish (I mean, he's in the wagon with _Ulfric_...???) and yet, that has to be "explained" to the PC. How could any PC be that totally ignorant of something so important?

 

After 5 hours of rummaging around Riverwood, that unlikely beginning still bothered me intensely. I had reluctantly chosen Hadvar for no comfortable reason, other than (mistakenly) believing it was he who had helped me up from the chopping block. (Only later, during a re-run, did I realize that was Ralof! Doh!)

I hated being asked to choose between Imperial or Stormcloak with so little information, and there was no way I could enjoy the game with that conundrum spinning away in my mind. So I paused, to browse for mods, and let the plot stew a little. 

 

I was also late to start playing (Jan 2014), so there were plenty of mods around to pick from. Two stood out, as inspiring this story:

I particularly liked the idea of Pumping Iron, by Gopher, to start the game as an emaciated 0% wimpy weakling, then building up to the big, strapping, 100% strength Dovahkiin, as the character gained experience and leveled up:  
http://skyrim.nexusmods.com/mods/29476

And, the ready-made inspirational PC image of Aleroth the Breton called out to my imagination as the very picture of defiant muscular manliness, piercing eyes blazing with brooding fury, hands on hips in watchful judgement, from the Inhabitants of Skyrim / Character Preset mod by Rops1981. He looked like the perfect epitome of ultimate tough guy, having already endured whatever hell Tamriel and the Divines had thrown at him. He had not only lived to tell the tale, but carried that baggage with him, as he evaluated the world and those in it, acting as Talos' Secret Agent. He symbolized _everything_ I wanted my hero to become.  
http://skyrim.nexusmods.com/mods/18820

I changed his name to Alerunt, for rather contrived reasons that will become very clear, very quickly. (Let's just say he is Aleroth's twin brother, separated at birth...)

 

Everything came together in a sudden epiphany. The story arrived, completely and utterly, in a flash. I have to admit, that afterwards I rather wished I had _NOT_ thought up this story, because it is rather brutal and unpleasant. How would I feel, roleplaying such a damaged individual? Could he still be normal? He trusted no-one, and had self-esteem so low, he had none left. Emotionally, he had to be numb, burying any and all feelings, to survive his ordeal. His sordid history was bad enough to make him suicidal. He _had_ to be, since the chopping block was _desirable_.

Then I realized, this is a backstory that _heightens_ the inexorable rise from total nobody to world hero all the more, because he came from even more difficult, lowly and impossibly fractured origins than any sane person would ever contemplate. Of overcoming unbelievable emotional and physical torments and pains, just to get _into_ the prisoner wagon in the first place. To explain how this young prodigy could be so totally rubbish at fighting, or at anything else for that matter. To explain how this mature weakling could have zero skills except for some basic cooking and crafting. To explain how he could be so ignorant of the Civil War going on around him. And how he had managed to not learn anything during his childhood. Except some clever stuff like how to read.

And all this, just so that I might feel an even greater pleasure as I traverse Skyrim and guide my damaged hero to fight for the causes I choose.

This backstory provides a reference frame for me to gauge my options and choices and decisions against. He’s a fundamentally good guy in my eyes, tortured and torn by cruel fate that could so easily turn him to the dark side. He will overcome the horrors of his youth in my game, because that’s my fantasy. He will ultimately make loyal friends, and even find love, as he brings peace and restores order to the wider world as fairly as he can. He'll be gentle if he can, because he knows what "rough" feels like from the receiving end. But he’ll fight tooth and nail if he has to, fighting the good fight with every last fiber of his being, because he has seen and felt the dark evil within some people, that he will no longer permit to exist.

In this story, he fails to step up to that mark. Laughably and utterly miserably, too. But this story also heralds his _last_ failure, kneeling down at that chopping block. The turn of events at the game opening in Helgen empowers him to become the in-game success every Dragonborn should be. I suspect this is what Bethesda always envisioned, and that this story simply amplifies and makes clear how the player is supposed to feel and react. Me? I needed a little extra imaginative help from this story to "get it".

 

In my ongoing game, woe betide any bandits I find.... There is a special level of bloodlust reserved just for them.  
And I am relieved to say, that that is as far as any lasting effects of his unfortunate history goes. Apart from, when he makes a good choice in game, it feels all the more amazing because of the emotional baggage he has to deal with, to make that choice. It has indeed heightened the warm glow of making him a good guy. 

But the story allows both dark and good choices. The Dragonborn can rise above his dreadful demise, maintaining faith in Talos, seeking to right wrongs.  
Or, he can turn to the dark side, overwhelmed by his abuse, and wreak vengeance on all and sundry. I have tried to write it as openly as possible for that purpose.  
Because I might even let him have moments of weakness in my own game, where he indulges his darker feelings.

So if you favor the dark choice, it is also easier to pick the Stormcloaks, to facilitate wreaking revenge on his Imperial captors. He can still turn out good after that if you like, as his satisfied vengeance could mellow into realizing there are bigger things at stake.  
Or he could become a twisted sadistic bully like another nasty character he meets right here, who teaches him all of the "wrong" ways to do things.

My own intent is that he will turn out good, eventually being healed by the friends he makes, and the love he (might) find. I should also add, that the Dragonborn is not declared as either hetero- or homosexual. He endures the slash in the bandit camp, because he has no choice. He does warm to one of the men, but only because he is more of a friend than the other abusers. He takes whatever tiny scraps of comfort he can get, as any love-starved person might, but is by no means written as explicitly favoring any particular sexual orientation.

When the going gets too tough, please remember that this story ends in the prisoner wagon. Like any prequel movie, it has that unfortunate inevitable spoiler before we even get started. It's just the nasty level of abuse, torture, and torment, he must endure, that is the bit that's difficult to stomach. But knowing where it ends does help with that.

Just so you know, I have shed a few girly tears of compassion myself, reading my own words, as I feel the highs and lows of the miniscule joys and major sufferings this imaginary story takes us through, while preparing the dragonborn for his eventual awesomeness. There are a couple of extra-special lines that fill me up every time. I hope you find some too.

I really do hope you enjoy having your emotions yanked about while reading this, as much as I enjoyed writing it.

 

Hopefully you’ll get the idea of where this story is going fairly early. Beginning of the second paragraph, actually. If you give it a try, but don’t like where it’s going by the time you read the paragraph where the name is revealed, please stop there. Reading more after that won’t be to your liking. You might be scarred for life, like Alerunt. Because, to repeat the warning, I do fear that your game might be tainted by it. Stories that explain the origins of the Dovahkiin seem to be really rare. And if your own hero is tainted by this story, well, you might find it difficult to keep playing and enjoying the game like you were.

 

 

 

When you are done reading:

Re-watching the introductory scenes in the cart, and Helgen, gives a _very_ different feeling.  
The muteness is a stunned silence. He is in shock.  
A feeling of despair saturates the trivial bickering of the other people in the cart.  
And, when the chopping block appears, it captivates all attention as a desired means of escaping further torment.

For myself, the emotional level in the cart went from yawn to _OMG no this can't be happening_. I could _feel_ the Dragonborn itching to put his head on the block, desperate to escape a repeat of the ordeal in the bandit camp.

This story not only explains our hero’s origins, but even makes it easier to choose the Imperial side. For me, the words Hadvar speaks before the attack, means he is my _automatic_ choice (you'll see why in the epilogue). Meanwhile, Ralof says nothing in the cart that draws me closer to him. I came to understand, that it was not so much a choice of Imperial or Stormcloak, as a choice between Hadvar and Ralof. And that choice is much, much easier to make.  

Plus, after being saved, the help he receives, and fledgling relationship he starts, with Hadvar / Ralof, when his bindings are cut, makes an _enormous_ impression.

This is perhaps exactly what Bethesda always intended. But for me it fails totally, without this backstory.

 

And now, let the abuse begin...

 


	2. The time... before.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alerunt recalls his early childhood.

### 2\. The time... _before._

“Where are they?” he wondered. He gave the stew another stir, then looked and listened for sign of the bandits’ return. It wasn’t like them to be late back from a raiding expedition. It was nearly dusk now, and they usually returned sometime in the mid-afternoon, dumping their soiled and bloody gear on him to clean, while he tried to prepare the dinner. He said a silent prayer of thanks to Talos that he had chosen to prepare a stew – at least it would keep hot in the pot as late as necessary. The last thing he needed was to upset hungry bandits by offering them a burnt and spoiled meal.

For the past ten years, he had been the slave help in the bandit camp. At least, he _thought_ it was ten years. It was probably more. Twelve, or fifteen perhaps. He didn’t care anymore, because nothing about his miserable life showed any sign of changing in the near or distant future. Time was meaningless when every day was the same, doing chores, cooking and cleaning, fetching water. And providing… amusement… for the bandits. He closed his eyes, vainly trying to shut out the image of his grim, wretched life.

He rubbed his wrists and ankles where the rusty shackles bit into his skin. The pain reminded him he wasn’t totally numb to everything these days. He tried to remember his parents, but their images had faded some years ago. At least he could still remember his childhood home.

As the hearth fire crackled in the otherwise silent camp, his mind’s eye wandered back to the time… _before_. It was nearly his tenth birthday. His mother was going to bake some special sweet rolls to celebrate, and he was very much looking forward to the annual treat. They lived on a little rural smallholding. His father was a blacksmith, supplying the local farmers, shoeing horses and fixing carts that traveled by on the main road, and scoring the occasional lucrative commission from the Imperial forces when the town blacksmiths were overwhelmed with orders.

He had loved helping at the forge, driving the bellows and stoking the fire while watching his father work the hot metal. His mother seemed to smile and sing all day, tending her flower garden and vegetable patch, and raising some chickens. They bartered for milk and meat with the local farmers. They had everything they needed. Life was comfortable. Life was simple. Life was good.

Sometimes, at night, his father would show him the stars, and explain how they could show him the way. He told stories of the towns and big cities, and of contracts and business, but he was still young, and a lot of that didn’t make much sense in his local, isolated world. He saw the wagons and travelers come and go, passing by their home on the main road, but that road only seemed to lead “ _away_ ” in both directions.

His mother would read to him before bedtime, teaching him the words, and the precious value of books. He felt happy and loved, and little was demanded from him in return, so he always did his chores willingly, and was given plenty of liberty and time to play in return. Sometimes he would visit the neighboring farms, and help out working the land and tending the animals, not just to be friendly and neighborly like his parents had taught him to be, but because he liked to be helpful, and enjoyed the freedom to choose for himself what to do.

And, when there was no work to be done, he amused himself for hours exploring the forest at the back of the house, and scrambling over the rocky outcrops on the other side of the main road.


	3. The time... ever since.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What life has been like since his abduction.

### 3\. The time... ever since.

 

He had been playing on the rocks the day everything had changed. He heard shouting and yelling and screaming from the house.

He ran back to the forge, to find his father slumped against the wall, sitting in a pool of blood, his lifeless eyes staring back without recognition. Wide-eyed with shock, he tiptoed to the house, silently inching open the door, but was grabbed and yanked inside by a rough, muscular arm. The house was filled with strange men, looting and ransacking everything.

“Well, well, what have we got here?” sneered the scarred man who had grabbed him.

He heard his mother yell from the bedroom “NOOOOOO. Alerunt, RUN. Run away NOW.” He also heard the gurgle as her words were cut off by the dagger slicing through her throat.

“Alerunt, eh?” said the scar. “Too many syllables. From now on, we’ll just call you Runt. Ha-ha-haaaa! We could use some extra help around our camp, and you’re it.” Scarface fashioned a leather strap into a collar and leash, tying it just a little too tightly. The bandits finished ransacking the house before starting the two day march back to their camp. From then on, Runt’s world had been completely different.

 

He shivered. And it wasn’t just the nip in the air of the approaching autumn. He had never had time to deal with witnessing the brutal slaughter of his family, and he had been captive to the bandits ever since, forced to cook and clean and dig latrines and polish armor and swords. And other things. Unspeakable things. He shook his head as if trying to shake the thoughts completely out of his mind.

Every morning he had to fetch water from the stream nearby, and prepare breakfast. Woe betide him if he was late, or burnt the toast. Many of the bandits were only too happy to use him as a punching bag for the slightest reason. Not that they ever needed a reason.

Late morning, most of the bandits would head out for the day’s raiding, mostly ambushing passing traffic on the road at the bottom of the hill. Sometimes, like now, they all left for two or three days on a bigger expedition to raid settlements and maybe a small village. The raid when he had been captured had been four days long, and he had only ever seen them do that once more since his enslavement.

He cursed his rotten luck that it had been _his_ home in range of that fateful day. The bandits could so easily have taken another road and raided somewhere else. But they hadn’t, and he was now theirs to command and abuse as they liked. Forevermore, it seemed.

A tear thought about welling up and trickling down his cheek, but quickly abandoned the idea. There was far too much to cry about, to go recklessly gushing forth like that. Besides, showing a tear in front of the bandits was guaranteed to attract mockery and beatings, so it had to be reserved for special occasions. Runt just sighed instead, prodded the bubbling pot, and added another log to the fire.

Preparing the equipment for the longer raids was hard work, because he had to do it on top of his normal duties, but at least he got some peace and rest while they were away. Especially at night. Oh, thank Talos for those peaceful nights. It was the nearest thing he got to a holiday.

His stomach growled loudly. It was dark now, and there was still no sign of any returning bandits. Dare he risk eating something? Theoretically, he was allowed to eat whatever was left only after all of the bandits had eaten their fill. If they even _suspected_ him of eating before then, he would be whipped. He had learned that a growling stomach was the best evidence he could provide that he had not been tempted. And the bandits would laugh at his bodily noises. He now knew it was a good thing to pro-actively make them happy. Because it made his life a little easier, in the end. So he would nibble little to keep his stomach empty during the day, and he’d get something reasonable to eat at night. Maybe. With a bit of luck and careful planning.

 

Not all of the bandits were evil sadists like Scarface. Very few, really. Actually, Scarface was in a class all of his own. Runt tried his best to avoid attracting his attention, but his options were very limited. Scarface was the one who would demand to have his entire armor cleaned and polished just as Runt was starting to prepare dinner. Scarface would be the one that laughed “Oops, clumsy me” as he kicked over the cooking pot, spilling Runt’s hoped-for meal onto the ground or into the fire. Whenever there was punishment to mete out, Scarface would be in the front row to watch, or volunteering to deliver it personally. As if life wasn't bad enough for Runt already.

All he could do was try to manage and anticipate the trouble. But he had to be sneaky and clever, because if he got caught trying to outsmart the bandits, there was hell to pay. He tried to position the pot where the inevitable kick would most likely send the food onto the leather skin he had casually placed, hoping to catch and save enough for a meal that didn’t taste like dirt later that night. He was well practiced now, mixing up the positions and tactics to keep Scarface unaware of the trick. It often worked, but not always. Better to lose sometimes, than risk being found out, he had decided.

He tried to roll with the many punches, and exclaim a little louder than necessary when he was hit. It persuaded many of the bandits to soften their next blows, but only up to a point. Never with Scarface, though. With Scarface he could always expect the full-bore treatment.

It was the shaving that he really dreaded. Scarface relished this regular opportunity to inflict more suffering, enjoying every exquisite moment that Runt trembled before him, as he dragged his dagger across Runt’s head and face with slow menace. To inflict pain, he’d use a blunt edge, tearing at the hair. When the blade was sharp, Runt braced himself for the deliberate nicking of his skin and scalp, that had been fully intended to draw blood. And Scarface could make this torture last for hours, often lingering with deliberate malice with the dagger held against Runt’s throat.

At least the random whippings had stopped. After Runt had first arrived at the camp, he would receive a few lashings every few days or so, purely for Scarface’s pleasure. On a good day it might only be a punch or three from a knuckle-duster. But once, when Scarface had been in a really bad mood, and Runt hadn’t polished his commode to perfection, he got out a cat-o-nine tails. The lashes rained down in a furious frenzy for just a few seconds before the other bandits intervened to stop the flogging. But Runt’s entire back was already shredded - reduced to nothing but blood and torn flesh.

The bandit leader had not been happy about that. He had confiscated all of the whips, for starters. Runt’s wounds meant he couldn’t do any duties for three days, and Scarface was made to carry water and cook food. He had been a mortal nemesis ever since, so even though Scarface couldn’t whip him anymore, he got even more beatings and his food was now thrown in the dirt by default, every day.

If anyone instilled fear in Runt, it was Scarface. The bandit leader was a mere pussycat by comparison, but he had kept the whips, and usually honored his threat to mete out punishment if Runt failed to perform adequately. At least he didn’t delegate that job to Scarface. It was little comfort, though.

 

Complying was really the only option he had. At least, he complied _these days_. In the early days, he had fought back, while the burly bandits laughed and teased as the little boy flailed his puny arms, trying to punch them back. Those days were long gone now.

He had tried to run away a few times, too. When he had first arrived at the camp, the leather leash was swopped for a tethering chain padlocked about his neck, which gave him just enough freedom to move about the camp and do his duties. But he had to be released every morning, so that he could reach the stream to fetch water. That was when he had taken a chance at running every once in a while. But the bandits were expert trackers, and he never managed to get more than a few hours away before he was caught again. Then he would be beaten and flogged for the trouble he had caused them. Every time he tried and failed, the punishment was worse. His resentment and defiance had grown with every cut and bruise.

Until, one day, the bandits simply decided enough was enough. He must have been about 14, when they agreed the little boy was getting a bit too big and strong and belligerent to remain unrestrained. He had recently landed a few retaliatory blows that had split a lip or two, and the bandits were not amused. His fate was sealed when he knocked out his guard with the water bucket one morning, and made his last inevitably doomed bid for freedom.

Back at camp, they didn’t bother with the customary whipping. An iron collar was locked around his neck, and his hands temporarily bound to it. He recognized the collar – one of the younger bandits wore one just like it, and he suddenly understood that Murcer must have been the camp slave before him. That explained a lot, especially why Murcer generally treated him the nicest. But Murcer was now a bandit. Confused, he wondered if he was being initiated into the bandit brotherhood. But he had been wrong. Oh, so very, very wrong.

The next day Scarface and the leader led him back to the now derelict forge. They found the iron shackles his father had been making for the Imperials. His father’s dead eyes watched from empty sockets, while his son’s wrists and ankles were riveted into the permanent iron bondage of his own making. The ghosts gathered, and wept as they saw the dire fate that had befallen their son.

Short chains connected hands, and feet, and neck. Movement was severely restricted, and he could barely manage a crouching shuffle. He offered zero threat of punching back anymore, and the bandits relaxed in the knowledge that Runt was now totally helpless and defenseless.

And that was how it had remained ever since. Worse, even, because the chains had been fixed once and for all as they had been fastened. There were no locks to remove. There was no way to lengthen them as he grew into a young man. He remained crippled and constrained, and the bandits had never once considered relaxing his confinement. They enjoyed his humiliation too much to risk letting him be disruptive again. He had begged for the chains to be loosened a few times, but each time the response he got made it clear he should never dare to ask again. This was fully intended to be a permanent imprisonment, with no hope of parole, ever.

He had pushed them too far, and had lost all hope of getting his life back. Too late he learned that his resistance had been futile from the very beginning. His spirit to fight had simply forced them to lock him down completely. From that day on, he could do nothing to defend himself, obliged to meekly obey every last whim to spare himself even worse treatment. Spirit broken, his soul faded slowly from his eyes, while the bandits mercilessly teased and tormented his vulnerable predicament.

The tear thought again about making an appearance, but found itself lacking the spirit to carry out the threat.

Back at camp, his impeded movement meant the bandits rarely bothered to use the tethering chain anymore. Losing the hassle of the daily release and supervision while he fetched water from the stream was their gain at his expense. Even if it was half a day before they realized he was on the run, trying to escape, he was now so hampered and slow, and left such an obvious trail to follow, that he could never hope to get away. It was only when he was left alone at the camp for a few days, such as now when the bandits were away on their longer expeditions, that he was reunited with that tethering chain, just to make sure he wouldn’t wander. He felt the extra weight of it around his neck.

A wolf howled at the rising moon. It sounded far enough away to be safe. Alone in the camp, he had no defense if a wolf came prowling. But the bandits were usually around, and the wild animals never ventured into the camp itself. The wolf howled again. “ _There’s always a first time_ ,” he thought, and looked behind himself a little nervously.

He rubbed his aching wrists again. The shackles were tight. Too tight. He was still very young when the bandits had chosen the ironwork, and his growing limbs had not quite had enough room for the rusty iron to remain comfortably loose around his wrists and ankles as he matured. He was scrawny to the point of malnourishment from the meager food, and yet there wasn’t even enough clearance to wrap linen cloth around the shackles to stop them chafing his skin.

 

He gave the stew another stir, and lit some lanterns around the camp. “Where _IS_ everyone”, he wondered again, a little more anxiously.

The peace was an unexpected bonus, though. Usually by now, he would be…. he didn’t want to think about it, but the unwelcome image was there already, and he felt dirty and ashamed. He didn’t remember the first time he had been sodomized. It was probably the first night at the camp, because it seemed to have happened every day for as long as he could remember. The nightly gang-raping was just another part of his daily routine now, and he had learned it was best to comply with enthusiasm, performing whatever sordid actions and making whatever noises the bandits desired of him. He knew all of their intimate quirks and preferences now, and could anticipate their needs well enough to please and pleasure them without being directed.

The tear anticipated it might be needed soon, too, and tried to muster up some enthusiasm for the job. But it still waited obediently to be called.

His first customer of the evening would yell “C’mere, Runt. Your ass is mine.” Hiding or resisting was pointless – he’d only be beaten and handled that much rougher for making them wait, because the end result was inevitable. Invariably, the first servicing began before the other bandits had finished eating, so his evening meal was doomed to wait until all of the men were done with him for the night. If he was lucky, there would still be some cold food waiting for him on the leather skin, after Scarface had experienced his daily clumsiness.

Of the twenty bandits, only three were women. And one of those was the leader’s exclusive companion, and strictly off limits to the other men. He would usually have to satisfy at least three, and sometimes up to nine or ten men every evening. And when the bandits returned from a long expedition, he knew the night would be extra-busy pleasuring the horny men. Again, managing the problem as best he could, he would prepare himself mentally and physically as the bandits ate. The butter he had inserted earlier, intended to lubricate the first assault of the night, was no doubt long gone by now. But so far tonight he remained unmolested, while the bandits remained strangely absent. It was unexpected, and unsettling.

He tried to shift the position of his collar. His hands couldn’t reach it, so he had to rub his neck on the ground like a dog. _“Damn this collar. How had Murcer coped with his?”_ Murcer… He was different. Not much like the other bandits at all. His mood lifted slightly as he thought about the quiet bandit.

The tear relaxed, relieved to have been left alone. The crisis was over, for now.


	4. With friends like these...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fond memories of Murcer, plus rekindling his resistance.

### 4\. With friends like these...

 

Where he feared Scarface, Murcer was the one bandit that Runt actually liked. It had been Murcer that had nursed his wounds after the frenzied flogging. It was Murcer that sometimes took a second helping from the pot, and then abandoned it uneaten, for Runt to clean up later. Almost as if he was making sure there would be some good scraps for Runt to eat that night. But it was subtle and never revealed to be deliberate. And Murcer had never intentionally beaten or hit Runt, except when absolutely demanded by a communal game of “Roughing up Runt”, as the leader liked to call it.

He still used Runt like all the other men did at night, but he wasn’t nearly as forceful or demanding, usually taking his time and being gentle and careful. He talked softly and soothingly, almost as if he… cared? Perhaps it was empathy – the iron collar signaling that Murcer had had to perform this duty himself for the other bandits in days gone by, so perhaps he just knew what it felt like to be used.

Sometimes, Murcer would even hold and cuddle him, and fall asleep while spooning him on the bed. That was a very rare moment of tenderness indeed. Murcer had to be extremely careful that none of the other bandits saw such foppish weakness. He would thus try to wait until the other men were satisfied, before taking his turn. More often than not, though, Murcer fell asleep long before the last fucking of the night was finished, and Runt would be denied perhaps the only moments of close physical contact he actually looked forward to. Still, Murcer was the closest thing to a friend that Runt had in this vile place.

He sighed again.

Such was his daily life. Up at dawn to fetch water, and prepare breakfast, and ready the gear for the day’s raiding. Then, cleaning camp, emptying the spittoons and commodes through late morning. Gather firewood in the early afternoon, then preparing the evening meal. Sometimes, the bandits staying in camp that day would demand his time to polish equipment, or sew torn clothing, or perhaps provide some extra entertainment as punching bag or sex toy. As dusk neared, he would serve the meal and wine, before bracing himself for the night’s ordeal. And, maybe, he could eat some decent food after everyone else was asleep.

Making sure that dinner was ready on time was tricky when bandits stayed in camp, because he was at their beck and call, and they could keep him from the duties he had planned at any moment. If it happened, it happened, and while it almost always did happen when Scarface was in camp, there was nothing he could really do about it. Protests fell on deaf ears, and earned him an extra slap or punch. He usually tried to be ahead of schedule just in case, once again trying to manage the problem within the limits of his power. But if dinner wasn’t ready on time, or was started too early and burned or spoiled, he would be rewarded with a few lashes of tongue and whip. Getting through each day with minimal beatings was the best he could ever hope for.

The tear braced itself once more, anticipating that it might be called into action at any moment.

 

But right now, Runt was feeling confused and uneasy. The peace of the empty camp was a blessed relief from what he had been expecting, but the non-arrival of the bandits was a mystery. Where could they be? Had he got the days wrong? Were they only due back tomorrow? Had his mind become so detached that he had misunderstood the instructions? He cursed himself for not paying closer attention.

He looked about the deserted camp for something to do, and his eyes paused at the rusty sword next to, well, it wasn’t really a bed as such, but it was where Runt slept. The bandit leader tormented him with Rusty daily. “If you can polish this sword ‘til I can see my face reflected in it, I will release you,” he would laugh. Of course, he then pissed on it every day, just to make sure it was extra-rusty, and stink up the place for Runt’s nasal displeasure through the night.

The pitted surface was too rough to ever show a good reflection now, even if the metal could be persuaded to gleam like new. And there wasn’t even enough metal left to use a grindstone on it. Heck, there wasn’t even a grindstone in the camp to have a go.

Runt had tried to polish it with sand a few times, but quickly realized it was an impossible task, and an empty promise. Even if, by some miracle of Talos, he did get the sword to shine adequately, he knew the goalpost would simply be moved, and he would never be given his freedom. Now, that damned sword just stood on the rack next to his bed, taunting him all hours of every day and night.

For the first time in a long time, he felt the anger rising in him. He shuffled over to give the hated symbol a few swings, imagining brandishing the blunt tip at the leader’s laughing face. Not possible in his wildest dreams, of course, but it was a release that gave him a moment of strange, unfamiliar pleasure.

He stopped suddenly, realizing what the bandits would think if they saw him doing this, and guiltily put the sword back on the rack. It had been a long, long time since he had last enjoyed a few moments of silent rebellion. He seemed to have gotten away with it, but he waited anxiously for a few tense moments, because the bandits often surprised him with the stealth of their silent approach, and he wasn’t yet sure he was in the clear.


	5. The return of Murcer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One bandit makes it back to camp.

### 5\. The return of Murcer

 

On cue, the silence was suddenly broken by someone crashing loudly through the undergrowth on the far side of the camp, and he recoiled in startled fear at the whipping that was sure to follow. He stumbled backwards in a futile attempt at self preservation, only to be jerked off his feet by the tethering chain reaching its limit. As he fell, he saw a bloody mess emerge into the clearing, and collapse.

Confused and uncertain, Runt hesitated much longer than he should have. He was expecting punishment, but the bloody mess remained on the ground, immobile. Runt finally shuffled over for a closer look, and discovered an injured bandit. “ _Thank Talos it was Murcer_ ”, he thought, as he helped the bleeding bandit get to his tent. Anyone else, and he’d be receiving stinging retribution by now.

As Murcer sank onto his bed, Runt saw deep cuts all over his body. Not sword cuts, these looked more like… clawmarks. He was covered in blood. And his hair was singed. What in Tamriel had happened? Runt went to fetch the last of the water, and some linen wraps from the meager medical stores. Then he cleaned and bandaged the wounds as best he could.

But the bleeding continued, and the bandages were stained crimson even before he had tied them. Another memory from _before_ made a helpful appearance. His mother had used her sewing kit, to stitch his father’s hand when he had gashed it badly on a broken bottle. His father had probably drunk most of the alcohol, certainly more than his mother had poured into the deep cut, but the profuse bleeding had stopped as she closed the wound, and there had hardly been a scar once it had healed.

He was well used to teaching himself new skills on-the-fly, but this one was really going to test his mettle. He fetched the darning needle and whatever thread he could find. He picked up the wine, then thought again, and retrieved the bottle of double-distilled skooma from the bandit leader’s not-so-secret hiding place as well. Lastly he lit a few lanterns around Murcer’s bed, and tentatively started his first attempts at surgery.

He gave Murcer the wine to drink, threaded the needle, and splashed some skooma into the first bloody chasm. Murcer cried out loudly as the alcohol stung viciously, and Runt was rattled. _Was he doing this right? Was he doing more harm than good?_ But Murcer reassured him, and urged him to carry on. One by one, he tried to sew the biggest, bloodiest gashes closed. He was now glad he had not eaten, because his dry stomach heaved every time he pushed the needle through the torn flesh.

Murcer told him what had happened while he worked. The bandits had found a cave, and had gone in to explore it. They were discussing using it as a new base camp, when the dragon had returned. _A **dragon**? In Skyrim? Surely not!_

The bandits were trapped inside, and with the dragon blocking the narrow entrance, they couldn’t attack it together. One by one, they were ripped apart and blasted with fire. Murcer had been one of the last, and had decided to duck past and flee while the leader had attacked. He had dropped his sword squeezing past the huge beast, but made it to safety without any serious injury, save some singing and small cuts. He didn’t think any of the other bandits had made it out alive. He really hoped so too, because if any had, he knew he would be flogged to death for his cowardice.

It was the black bear that had surprised him on his way back to camp that had done the damage. He was defenseless without his sword. He had been shredded by the bear’s claws, as he tried to run.

Runt worked on into the night, stitching and bandaging, bandaging and stitching, but he ran out of thread when he had closed barely half of the badly bleeding wounds. He wrapped more tight bandages around the unsewn cuts, and helplessly wondered what else he could do.

“Thank you”, whispered Murcer. The unfamiliar words totally stunned Runt. No bandit had ever thanked him for _anything_. He had last been thanked… _before_. As the memories flooded back once more, one brave tear got a little carried away, ventured forth into unfamiliar territory, and moistened an eye.

He filled a bowl with stew, and fed it to Murcer on a spoon. The gravy was warm and easy to drink. Murcer chuckled weakly. “Your stew always was a bit rubbish. Needs more salt.” The surreal moment of recipe exchange lifted them both away from the camp, affirming the fledgling friendship that had dare not speak its name in the presence of the other bandits.

It also took their attention away from the disturbing question that Runt most feared to ask, and that he felt Murcer already knew the answer to. The bandages were all soaked in blood again, and Murcer looked deathly pale. Runt lay with his friend for the rest of the night, to keep him warm and provide company, praying that he would be OK.

Through the dark hours, he lay there loyally. Murcer was breathing steadily, but neither man spoke.

He must have fallen asleep, because he was woken before dawn by the icy grip of a cold hand holding his. Murcer had sought one last moment of gentle intimacy before he died. The dead fingers clung on doggedly, not wanting to let go, but Runt pried them loose anyway. Only then did he feel ashamed for rejecting Murcer’s last advances of friendship. His only friend was gone. He felt utterly alone and abandoned.

A solitary, lonely tear decided it was time to make a bid for freedom, and ran away down his cheek, to join Murcer.

Runt covered the body with the blood soaked sheet. The camp was deathly quiet. Even the fire had died.


	6. The situation looks hopeless.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alerunt realizes he is in far worse a predicament than it seems.

### 6\. The situation looks hopeless.

 

“ _What now?_ ” he thought to himself. He could scarcely contain the hope that the hated bandits, Scarface especially, were all dead. He thanked Talos and the dragon for his deliverance, and then chastised himself for counting his chickens too soon. If Murcer had made it back, maybe others would too. But no, surely not? Murcer had been badly wounded, and returned six hours late. The others had to be even more wounded to not be here yet. And even if they did make it back, perhaps he still had the upper hand to finish them off in their weakened state. There couldn’t be many, if Murcer had told him the truth.

He grabbed the rusty sword. Charged with adrenalin, he imagined running Scarface through with it. And then apologized to his parents for enjoying such an evil thought. They had not raised him to be a killer, and would be disappointed with him if he actually did it. But perhaps they would understand his desperate plight, and forgive his vengeance of their deaths. He hoped so, because the conflict of intentions was almost impossible to resolve. Was it better to kill or be killed? Was it ever right to fight to the death? Such questions had never arisen at his childhood home, but the thought that his parents had been too easily slaughtered made him think that he should be ready to at least defend himself.

He prayed for the strength to seize this opportunity and fight for his freedom. He made himself the best breakfast of his life, and thought deep and hard as he ate. As if for encouragement, the sun blazed brightly for the most glorious golden dawn of the year, and some songbirds started singing. His heart was singing with them, but his mind was still very troubled, too scared to enjoy the moment.

He was by no means free.

The tethering chain meant he could not even leave the bandit camp, never mind reach the stream to fetch water. He would die of thirst in a few days, joining Murcer, if he could not at least release the lock on the tether. How could he possibly do that? As he ate, slowly, his shrunken stomach straining to accept the bountiful offering, his plans fell into place.

First, he searched the leader’s tent. There was only a small, remote chance that he would find the key. He knew the leader usually kept it with him, because otherwise it would be too easy for Runt to escape while the bandits were away. But he searched anyway, hoping to get lucky. Slowly. Carefully. Thoroughly. Meticulously. Putting everything back as he went. If a bandit did return unexpectedly, he could pretend to be cleaning, or dusting, or something. “ _No, dammit_ ”, he swore at himself, “ _that’s the old subservience talking. I’m going to **fight** this time._ ” But he put everything back neatly anyway. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was still controlled by the vicious beating and whipping he could expect as punishment for trashing the camp.

He found nothing in the leader’s tent of any use, nor anything in the next few tents either. Most of the bandits kept their stuff locked in personal trunks, which he couldn’t open, of course. He didn’t even know what he was looking for. Perhaps a mace or hammer to smash the lock. But the bandits had taken all of their weapons with them. And Murcer had dropped his fleeing the dragon. All he had, was that pathetic rusty sword. Which was no match for the chain or the lock. He kept searching, but despondency gradually consumed his mood, and his search slowed to a dead stop.

 

He sat down for a rest, rubbing his painful wrists and ankles again in a futile gesture. The extra activity had really broken the skin now, and the wounds were raw and bleeding. He thought of desperate measures.

He could invert some of the tents to catch water next time it rained. There was enough food to feed the twenty bandits for at least five days, but most of it would spoil long before he could eat it. Perhaps he could survive for a few weeks if he had to.

Maybe the fireplace stones could grind their way through the chain? That seemed like a last resort. But the thought of ending his days at the end of that damned tethering chain, with that impotent rusty sword and his dead friend for company, was simply not acceptable. Surely his life story could not end that way?


	7. Secrets of Salvation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murcer proves pivotal to giving Alerunt one tiny lifeline.

### 7\. Secrets of Salvation.

 

He gulped a mouthful of wine, and gasped and choked as the liquid burned his throat. The bandits had never permitted him to drink any alcohol, but he did it now to buff up his courage to continue the fledgling rebellion. Besides, there was no water left to drink.

The next tent he was supposed to search was the one with Murcer’s body in it. Perhaps he should leave that one until last, out of respect. And _then_ , he remembered:

 

A long time ago, on one of those rare, special nights when he lay with Murcer, the bandit's tongue loosened by excessive wine, he had told Runt some deeply personal secrets. Murcer had confided in him that yes, indeed, he had been the camp slave a long time ago. He had behaved himself impeccably, obeying the bandits with enthusiasm and willingness, and gradually the bandits had accepted him more as a colleague than a piece of meat.

Over many years, the bandit leader had allowed him more and more freedom, even taking him with them on some of their daily raids. He was simply a pack animal to carry the spoils back to camp, but every little mission built a little more trust. Until, one day, the tethering chain had been removed, and he was initiated into the bandit brotherhood.

Except for one thing. The iron collar was left locked around his neck, to remind him always of who he belonged to, and to never, ever forget it.

The leader made it clear he would be hunted and killed if ever he ran away or double-crossed them. Murcer accepted the deal, and had honored the bargain, staying loyal to the bandits even as Runt had been acquired and forced into the indentured life he had so hated himself. He had been pained as he saw the different direction Runt’s servitude with the bandits had taken, and wished he could have done more to help and guide, but the bandit life was selfishly hard, and he had to look after himself first.

For Murcer, removing that collar was the one thing he most dearly wished for. He knew the leader had the key, but he doubted, like Runt, that he would ever honor the pledge to release him. “So,” he whispered conspiratorially in Runt’s ear as he held him especially close, “I’ve secured other means to make sure I can free myself from this collar someday.”

 

 _Other means?_ Whatever that was, Runt now realized, it would surely help him with the tethering chain too, wouldn’t it? Surely? Please? Oh Talos, please let it be so…

He entered Murcer’s tent, and found his chest locked like all of the others. He patted down Murcer’s body, and found the key. He unlocked the chest, and carefully removed the contents. A fur cloak, some gauntlets, a spare pair of boots. Nothing to open a lock with.

Disappointed and confused, Runt stared at the empty chest. He inspected the garments closely, looking for concealed pockets, or something, _anything_ , but he found nothing. He searched under the bed, and around the rest of the tent. Nothing.

He stared at the empty chest again. It slowly dawned on him that the bottom of the chest wasn’t as deep as it should be. He felt the wooden boards carefully, and one moved under his fingers. _A false bottom?_ Ruefully he realized that Murcer wasn’t safe from impromptu inspections, and if the bandit leader had found what Murcer was hiding… no wonder he had taken precautions.

He lifted the board, and in the small space underneath he found a little journal and quill, an amulet of Mara, and, almost invisible in the corner, a lockpick. A thin, frail, rusty lockpick. “ _How in Tamriel could something this small and fragile possibly set me free?_ ” thought Runt in disbelief. He took the pick outside to examine it better in the sunlight.

 

He quickly realized that this little pick was his only chance for salvation. It was the tethering chain that absolutely doomed him, so releasing that lock had to be the first and only priority. He settled comfortably near the fire. Then, carefully, gently, he started probing the lock with the pick, teasing the tiny tool back and forth with his fingertips.

A couple of times he felt something move, and instantly let go, fearing it was the pick breaking. He must have spent hours at it, because suddenly the daylight was dimming, and he was stiff and sore and cramped from doing nothing but focus on working that lock for the whole afternoon. He had to take a break, and stood up to stretch his legs. Well, stretch them as far as the chains would allow, of course. He was very much still a captive slave, despite his absent masters.

 

His stomach rumbled, not having eaten since the dawn breakfast, so he took a large bowl of the old stew, and relished the luxury of eating peacefully, undisturbed, and, for the first time since _before_ , not anticipating the dreaded first rape of the evening.

He decided that trying to pick the lock in the darkness was a bad idea. And, he wanted to bury his friend too. So, he started preparing a grave at the limits of what the tether allowed. He didn’t get halfway done before the pain from his wrists forced him to stop digging.

He suddenly felt overwhelmed by tiredness. He had been tense all day, half-expecting the peace of the empty camp to be broken by the return of some bandits. His wrists especially were bloody and raw with the day’s activities. Plus the shock and poor sleep of the night before was catching up with him. He decided to rest, and resume trying to pick the lock in the morning, and settled down to sleep in his usual nest.

But, no sooner had he lain down, than he knew he would not sleep. His mind was racing with the possibilities of freedom. It was so close he could almost taste it. _How could he waste the night doing nothing, when every precious second might count towards the success of his liberation?_

So, he got up again. He relit and stoked the fire big and bright, then collected and lit as many lanterns as he could find, arranging them around his spot by the fire. Even the full moon beamed with encouragement for his daunting task. And he sat down once more, to tease and probe the lock with that tiny, frail implement that his _entire life_ now depended on so totally, utterly and completely.

Another hour or two passed. Another couple of times he had felt movement and let go, too afraid the pick was breaking to press on. Each time he vowed to push it further next time.

He felt the lock move once more, and held still. His heart hammering in his mouth, he closed his eyes, prayed for all he was worth, and applied more pressure. And more. And _still_ more. “ _How much **more**?_ ” he asked himself anxiously, and increased the pressure once again. Shaking his head, on the verge of letting go again, convinced the pick was about to break, the pressure vanished by itself.

 _Click_.

The tiny noise thundered in his ears, and he opened his eyes wide. But he couldn’t see anything through the tears that were flooding his eyes and blurring his vision, released just as suddenly as the pressure on the pick. _Was that it? Was it open? Had the pick broken? Was he free, or was he dead?_

He fumbled blindly at the lock, to find it hanging open. It took his shaking hands an eternity to remove the tethering chain, and he sat there shuddering, sobbing loudly, not quite able to accept his deliverance.

The tears could not quite believe their freedom either, the floodgates well and truly wide open now, and they flowed like a river without end.

He thanked Talos for the help. He thanked the dragon for dealing with his captors. And he thanked Murcer. For sharing the secret of the lockpick. For making it back to camp, bringing him the vital chest key that had provided access to the one and only chance he had of freeing himself. Finally, at long last, the Gods seemed to have smiled on him once more.


	8. Debts and Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alerunt pays his dues. And sets course for destiny.

### 8\. Debts and Memories.

 

He had a debt to pay next. There was simply no way he could bury Murcer still wearing that iron collar he had so desperately wanted to be rid of. Especially not while he had Murcer’s lockpick. He felt he owed that much to the dead bandit, and had to honor his wish if he could.

He took the lanterns to Murcer’s tent, and started working the collar lock. It was old and very rusted, not having been opened for many years. Runt was as patient and gentle and careful as he could be, and finally felt something move.

 _Crack_.

Runt stared at the broken lockpick in his hand.

A few more tears broke loose, as he apologized for failing his friend in this one special task.

 

He didn’t feel any pain at all as he dug the rest of the grave. He buried Murcer still wearing the hated collar, along with his diary, and the amulet of Mara. Runt wondered briefly who Murcer had wanted to be his companion. But he had decided against reading the diary to find out, in case the truth was unwelcome. Some things were best left a mystery.

His own life had been filled with love before the bandits had destroyed everything and ultimately broken him. Rediscovering that warm feeling again seemed like an impossible dream. _How could Murcer ever have had such dreams of love as a bandit?_ Perhaps he had somehow retained more of his former self than Runt had managed. He shed his last tears at the thought that Murcer could never achieve those dreams now. He vowed not to squander the precious opportunity that his dead friend had given him.

Runt went to the little waterfall in the stream, to drink and wash. As he crouched there, shivering in the moonlight under the frigid falling water, he realized that once again, his entire world had been turned upside down in the blink of an eye.

 

He shuffled back to the campfire, to warm up, and rest, and think some more. The bandits were surely all dead, his home had been derelict and abandoned for at least ten years, and he had no friends or family to go to. He was still chained and shackled, and could not just start walking towards the nearest town, hoping that the first stranger would help him. He felt far too vulnerable to risk that, lest he end up in the fire after escaping the frying pan. His future was in his hands now, and he was determined to keep control of it, or die trying.

Runt vowed he would follow his friend’s example in the future, and seek to help and comfort and soothe others in trouble and need and torment. He would care, and cherish, and be kind, like his parents had taught him. He would fight against injustice and cruelty, because no-one should ever have to live through the evil horrors he had experienced. And he had _absolutely no idea_ how he could overcome the numbing brutality of his life in the bandits’ camp, to achieve _any_ of that. But he prayed it would happen anyway.

He would start by calling himself Alerunt again, as a first step. Even that tiny decision caused him to quiver nervously at the cocky display of such rebellion against his bandit masters.

Most of all, he swore he would never submit to being anyone’s slave, ever again. His destiny would remain his to control from now on.

 

But he still had to help himself, first. The shackles and chains still hampered his movement and caused him pain, and he was quite defenseless against all but the smallest molerat. He decided to head back to the family home, the only other place he knew. At least his father’s tools should help him to release the shackles. If the forge had been stripped and ransacked, he would have to find somewhere else and steal whatever he needed to free himself. _"A grindstone would do it,"_ he thought. But until he was free, he would not risk talking to anyone, or even being seen. Stealth would protect his freedom until he was free of his bindings.

He briefly considered spending another night at the camp. But the thought that a bandit might return, and deny him the freedom so tantalizingly within his grasp, spurred him on. He had very little to pack, and needed to travel light to ease the difficult journey ahead. Murcer’s fur cloak, some food, an oilskin of water from the stream. He put extra wraps around his feet. Murcer’s boots and gauntlets were useless because they wouldn’t go past the shackles. Finally, _yes_ , by Talos, he picked up the rusty sword that had mocked him for so many years, and tucked it into the rope that held his rags around his waist. At least he could fight a molerat now. Maybe.

He said one final goodbye at Murcer’s grave, then shuffled out of the camp, down the hill, towards the road.

He did not look back.

He wanted the bandit camp to be in his past, not his memories.


	9. On the road “to” somewhere.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alerunt starts his painful journey back to normalcy.

### 9\. On the road “to” somewhere.

 

He stumbled on down the hill until he saw the road. But he stayed in the forest, in case he met someone on the road that might try to take advantage of his helplessness. He could keep hidden and safe if he was careful. But not _too_ far into the forest, with its lethal animals. Murcer had been mauled to death by a bear, and he had been able to move much better than Alerunt could.

He walked all night, to put as much distance between the camp and himself as he could. He rested in the forest, still not sleeping at all. He could not relax enough to close his eyes, such was the urgency he felt to get further away from the camp.

All the next day, all the next night, and all of the day after that, he followed the roads back to his old home. At least, he _hoped_ it was the right way, because he had only seen the route twice, and that had been such a long, _long_ time ago. His father’s stargazing didn’t help, because although he knew which way was which, he didn’t know where his home was relative to the bandit camp, so he simply didn’t know which direction to take. He just had to hope he was going the right way.

 

And he realized, for the first time in his life, that a road could also lead “ **to** ” somewhere, and not just “away”. He whispered another desperate prayer that this one was leading him to salvation.

 

Struggling through the undergrowth didn’t help matters. The chains slowed him down a lot, so he knew it was going to take a lot longer than the original two day trip on the road. But he couldn’t help panicking just a little, when, by the end of the second day of continuous travel, he _still_ didn’t recognize any landmarks. He had seen one or two patrols and traveling merchants on the road, but kept well hidden and quiet while they passed. By the third night he was totally exhausted. After resting to nibble at the last of the food, he passed out until dawn.

The next morning the glowing sun was again bright and… hopeful. Just like the first morning after Murcer had died. He resumed the journey, drinking from a stream, and beginning to think he would have to risk stealing some food from somewhere. But he realized he hadn’t actually seen any farms or houses since he had left the camp. He could try foraging, but he had no idea what was safe to eat. Or what dangerous animals would have the same idea.

Panicked, and more than a little afraid now, he shuffled on a little more urgently. He crested the next hill. And the next. And another one. And then his eyes flooded once more when he spotted the familiar rocky outcrop in the distance. He stifled a cry of relief, still mindful of his helpless state, and shuffled along as fast as he possibly could. The shackles had chafed his ankles raw, and blood caked his feet, but he didn’t feel it now. Salvation was in sight at last.

He stalled at the rocks opposite the house. Suddenly he felt exposed and vulnerable again. It was a long way down the track to the house. He would be in the open, and an easy target. He waited for ages, agonizing over whether he should risk it. In the end, he decided he had come too far to throw it all away now. His fear made him backtrack, cross the road at a more secluded spot, and use the forest behind the house for cover while making his approach.

 

His childhood home was still deserted. Cobwebs everywhere, windows broken, some loose roof tiles had slipped, and an open door creaked as it swung gently in the soft breeze. The decaying place felt as dead as it looked. Even the ghosts seemed dead. He entered the forge gingerly.

He had anticipated the sight that might greet him, but the shock still shook him to his core. His father’s body still lay where it had fallen, over ten years ago, now just bones and rags. And he knew his mother’s body was still in the bedroom of the house, equally untouched and forgotten. The ghosts stirred as his presence reawakened them, and he shivered as they came to welcome their son home once more.

 

He could not bear it. Releasing the shackles would have to wait.

 

Once again, he found himself digging graves for the only people that had ever cared about him. He wept continuously, the tears raining down on the ground where his mother’s flowers had once grown, as he trembled with rage at the cruelty of the brutal men who had murdered his parents for entertainment. And once again he vowed to fight against the evil that threatened the good in the world, with every breath he could muster. The ghosts watched proudly as he toiled, pleased and happy that their son had remained true to their teachings, and should be honoring them so.

It was almost noon before two new mounds marked where his parents' bodies were laid to rest, and he was able to start work on the shackles at last. The old grindstone was stiff, but quickly loosened up. He recalled how his father had caressed the pieces he fettled with it, lovingly finishing them to the legendary perfection he desired. Alerunt felt no such compunction to take any pride in this work – he wanted rid of these shackles as soon as possible.

 

Wrists first. He grimaced in pain with each jerk, as the metal kicked and bucked against the turning wheel, protesting against the persuasive erosion. But he only had to grind the rivet head off, and it seemed like the first fastening popped loose in no time at all. The shackle sprung open, and he stretched his arm luxuriantly in all directions for the first time in many years. It hurt to extend his stiff joints, but it was a good pain for once.

He freed his other hand, and then his ankles. At long last, he could move unhindered, with just the weight of the collar and chains dragging at his neck. He had stopped dreaming this day could come a long time ago, and suddenly it was almost reality already. He vowed once again he would never return to such bondage.

There was still the neck collar to deal with, but that was a different animal. He would have to grind through the whole thing, right against his skin, and there was no way to see what he was doing. It took a few hours, and more than a few painful grazes, but finally he was free of the collar too. The weight melted away as the chains fell to the floor.

 

He wanted to pinch himself. Surely he was just dreaming? This seemed too miraculous to be true. “ _I’m free? **Really free**?_ ”

 

He stood up, and stretched to his full height for the first time in his life. He felt ten feet tall.

A few more tears celebrated this new liberation, and rolled freely down his cheeks. He could wipe them away now, and he rejoiced at the long-forgotten sensation of his own fingers touching his face once again. He let the moment linger.

The ghosts wept with him. But this time, they were weeping with joy as they saw their son restored to life. They blew their kisses and whispered their goodbyes as the last of the unfinished business was completed, releasing them to rest in peace, as they left their beloved son to continue his journey alone.


	10. Frying pan and Fire. And Cart.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all goes horribly wrong in the worst possible way.

### 10\. Frying pan and Fire. And Cart.

 

What _next?_ He hadn’t really thought at all about what he would do _after_ this moment, because he had never really been sure it would come. It was only now that he was free of all of his bindings that he even dared to think about it. The future had just become a totally blank slate, and he would have to get used to the idea of being his own master from now on.

He decided to tidy the ransacked house first, and see what clothes of his father’s would fit him. That would reinforce this novel feeling that his destiny was his to control.

As he walked unhindered from the forge deep in thought, he realized too late that there was activity on the road nearby. In the open yard, he was spotted instantly.

“You there, **HALT!** ” yelled the Imperial guard at the front of the convoy, as he spurred his horse into a gallop.

Alerunt looked around for options, but there were none. He stood rooted to the spot, stranded in the middle of the wide-open courtyard, hand on the hilt of the token rusty sword, resolute that his new independence should be retained, and cursing himself for being so careless as to reveal himself so unnecessarily.

He would have to talk his way out of this one. That was something else he hadn’t tried in a long time, and he felt his throat tighten with anxiety.

The guard rode up, and dismounted. “Who are you?”, he barked.

“My name is Alerunt, Sir. This is my home.”

“Bullshit”, sneered the guard. “I’ve been escorting convoys on this road for five years now, and no-one’s ever lived here in all that time.”

 

By now, the convoy captain had also trotted up.

“Well, well, what have we got here?” Alerunt’s blood froze, upon hearing the Captain exactly repeat Scarface’s chilling first words.

 

His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came. Another ten years of life in the bandit camp flashed before his eyes. He was suddenly very weak, very hungry, very tired, and very sore, as the déjà vu events unfolding before him shocked him to the core of his soul. His spirit wavered and he stooped, just a little. _How could the Gods be this cruel to him?_

The guard replied: “Looks like trouble with a capital T to me, Captain. Claims this is his home, which we know is a lie. Just look at the place. No-one’s lived here for _years_. He’s dressed in filthy rags, and clearly doesn’t own anything, probably not even that rusty excuse for a sword he’s thinking of waving at us. He’s a thin, malnourished, mangy _runt_.”

Hearing the hated nickname once more, struck another ice cold dagger in Alerunt’s heart. It was happening all over again, and he felt so weak, so powerless, to stop it.

The guard continued, “By the looks of those whipping scars on his back, and obvious wounds where he’s just released his shackles, I’d say we’ve got an escaped prisoner on our hands. No doubt he’s just sneaked over the border, hoping to evade recapture.”

“Yes, I think you’re right.” said the Captain. “But there’s no point in trying to sort that out here. Put him in the wagon with the other prisoners. We’ll let the garrison at Helgen deal with it.”

 _“No, this cannot be,”_ thought Alerunt. He found his voice again, and tried to protest. “No, please, I was abduc…”

“SHUT UP”, yelled the guard, cuffing him on the head. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“But I’ve just escaped from …” He was interrupted by an iron gloved fist to his face.

“ **I SAID SHUT UP**. We _know_ you’ve just escaped. We’re not stupid. And now we’re going to un-escape you.”

Alerunt instinctively tensed as he considered trying to make a break for it. The wise old soldier anticipated his thoughts.

“No, _don’t_ try to run. My old arrow in the knee injury might slow me down, but you’ll never outrun our horses.”

He was right. Alerunt stood no chance at all against the horses, and armor, and fine weapons carried by the guards. And it had been years since his legs had last run anywhere.

At best, he had an opportunity to make the guards kill him now, if he resisted strongly enough. His hand tightened around the sword hilt, but he just couldn’t quite bring himself to draw it. He felt like such a coward, lacking the strength to move a defiant muscle.

 

Alerunt meekly let the guards strip away the rusty sword and bind his wrists. His thoughts had turned into nightmares. He was back in the bandit camp, reliving the misery all over again. He only resisted weakly as they dragged him towards the wagon. His legs gave way and buckled when they ordered him to climb in. The guards picked him up, and threw him in so violently, he was knocked out when he landed headfirst on the floor.

Then the wagon train of rebel prisoners resumed the slow journey towards Helgen.

 

_And so the story begins……_

 

The sound of rumbling wheels penetrated the darkness as he came to. His head still throbbing, Alerunt opened his eyes. The man sitting opposite said “Hey, you. You’re finally awake.”

Alerunt sat muted, in stunned disbelief at how the Gods had forsaken him once again.

He listened silently as the prisoners bickered around him. Who were these men? Who were these captors? What was going on? Why had he been arrested? Nothing made any sense. He had been that isolated in the bandit camp, he had no idea of what was happening in Skyrim. Not that any of that mattered...

He contemplated his bound wrists, and choked back more tears. After ten years of brutal torture, he had escaped, only to lose his freedom again almost immediately.

The vows he had made before leaving the camp were now utterly meaningless and empty. He had been a fool to think he had any chance of living up to those lofty ideals.

He had failed. Failed Murcer. Failed his parents. Failed himself.

He was weak. And pathetic. And useless. And in grave danger of losing it completely.

He pleaded with the Divines to end his worthless life, and not torture him any further. Fighting valiantly to hold back the imminent tears, he prayed silently, “ _Please, Talos, do it quickly. Spare me the ultimate humiliation of breaking down in front of these men, for this is more than I can bear._ ” He had no idea what fate awaited him at Helgen, but he desperately hoped it would all be over soon.

Whatever else happened, he simply could not endure another lifetime like the one he had just put behind him.


	11. Epilogue: Why it’s easier to choose Imperial.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hadvar makes a significant impression

### Epilogue: Why it’s easier to choose Imperial.

 

The journey to Helgen unfolded around him like a detached dream. The wagon rattled and bumped, and he saw the townspeople staring at him. Words floated to his ears, but he was lost in his own nightmares.

At journey's end, he watched the fleeing Lokir receive the rapid ending he longed for himself. But his own legs were too weak to run like that. He would be too slow, to demand a similar gift from the guards. 

But then he saw it: the chopping block. It captivated his attention, so near and yet so far, offering a definitive end to his intolerable suffering.

He was asked his name, and where he was from. He mumbled something in reply, eyes still transfixed on the symbolic monument of death.

 

It was the jarring of more long-unheard words that snapped him back to reality.

“I’m sorry,” said Hadvar.

 _What?_ His ears must have deceived him. He had last heard anyone say sorry to him… when?… it must have been… _before_.

 _“A soldier with **compassion**?”_ thought Alerunt incredulously. _“For **ME**?”_ It seemed _absurd_. He knew what he looked like – a weak, dirty, skinny, good-for-nothing nobody. And yet this man had felt sympathy for his misfortune.

He studied the soldier closely. “ _That’s very kind,_ ” he thought. “ _In another life, I would have liked to have known you better. But don’t be sorry. This quick death is the answer to my prayers._ ”

 

When he was called forth, he could barely move, overcome with joy that he should be so blessed. He boldly stepped up to the executioner’s block, relieved to be spared any further torment, and wishing it was over and done with already.

But the Divines were not done toying with him just yet. Talos had yet another twist of fate up his sleeve……

 

 _____________________________

 

_Thank you for reading._

 

________________________________

 

Epi-epilogue

I found that after all this, re-watching the intro is a _very_ different experience. There is a pervasive despairing emotion in the wagon, while the prisoners’ bickering seems so much more trivial, missing the bigger (or smaller) picture. Alerunt's personal problems far outweigh anything anyone else has to say.

And the executioner’s block suddenly captivates all attention as a desired “way out” of the torment. I found myself thinking " _Yes, please! Talos, is that gift for me? Thank you for answering my prayers..._ "

 

Even the simple moment when Hadvar / Ralof cuts his bindings in the keep takes on a whole new symbolic depth. It becomes the moment at which the hero first receives that “kind help from a stranger” he never dared to dream was possible while he was escaping the camp.

Furthermore, he is not just being given a drink or food to eat, but his _freedom_.

His faith that there is good in the world is instantly restored. It reignites the passion to make a difference, and not give up. It provides the opportunity to reaffirm the vows he made in the bandit camp, and make the new start as a good hero, with a new friend. Oh, such _hope_....

Or, it also marks the moment when he is released to wreak unrestricted vengeance, should you prefer the dark choice.....

 

I suspect that this is what Bethesda had intended the player to feel all along. But without enough backstory to substantiate it, it misfired badly for me.

This backstory, on the other hand, (if anything,) errs slightly on the "too strong" side of misfortune. But it helped me to deal with the "lack of information" at the very start, and carry on playing the game, choosing "a friend" rather than "sides in a Civil War" at the very beginning.

Alerunt has since proven himself to be a worthy hero, correcting rather than repeating his miserable youth. It seemed appropriate to share his awful Origin. He wishes you well on your own adventures. He also hopes you behave well enough, that he never meets you at the tip of his sword in a bandit camp. 

_Thank you again for reading._

 


End file.
